


Satisfaction

by RaphaelSantiago (softsocky)



Category: Shadowhunters (TV), The Mortal Instruments Series - Cassandra Clare
Genre: But at the same time it is, Future Fic, Its not really canon compliant, M/M, its angsty i guess?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-16
Updated: 2017-11-16
Packaged: 2019-02-03 06:20:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12742722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softsocky/pseuds/RaphaelSantiago
Summary: Jace Wayland or Herondale or whatever he was, or identified himself as, waltzed in, dancing a dance Simon himself could never seem to master, and swept Clary away from him in one foul swoop. By the time Simon got back on his feet again, Raphael Santiago had pushed him back down again.





	Satisfaction

Despite his height and the calibre of his voice, Simon had always felt _small._ Small-minded, no, but small in the sense that he shrunk himself around everyone else and hid himself with such finesse that it was obvious he had been doing it for years. Despite hating one’s self, Simon learned to appreciate himself in ways that only _he_ could. _He_ was the only one that got to insult him; _he_ was the _only_ one that could degrade himself to the levels at which he had degraded himself too. His life was somewhat simple like that: he remained small, in a big world, and told himself that the only way he’d reach the end of this god forsaken place is by following his steps, his rules, his methods of staying small and simple and _satisfied._

            Satisfaction, it seemed, morphed over time for Simon. At first, he had thought Clary had been his greatest satisfaction. Her happiness, her joy, any of her successes and her achievements, all satisfied him in ways that he couldn’t pin-point. He tried to explain it in the way one feels relief: endless anxiety smoothed clean with a single sentence of relief, lifting decades of doubt and worry off his shoulders in an instant. Clary was his satisfaction, and he thought, _he had hoped,_ that he was hers, too. But doubt still crept up on him – always, _always_. Doubt crept up so quickly he had no way to fight back, weapon-less and defenceless, no armour or way to stand his ground. Jace Wayland or Herondale or whatever he _was_ , or identified himself _as,_ waltzed in, dancing a dance Simon himself could never seem to master, and swept Clary away from him in one foul swoop. By the time Simon got back on his feet again, Raphael Santiago had pushed him back down again, claiming not only his satisfaction but also spoiling Golden Rule, insulting him left, right and centre whenever he could.

            Vampirism had never even crossed Simon’s mind in a literal sense. Sure, he had read of them – he had watched the silly movies, professed his love on numerous occasions to Edward Cullen, sue him, he was a teenager and a common one at that. But he fell more so inclined to the werewolves, loving Jacob more than fangs, fur more than blood, and peace more than the endless sour and bitter tones emitted from Raphael’s presence.

             But my _God,_ was he pretty.

            Clary was pretty in the classic sense. Her hair was curly enough that if she hair dried it, it would turn into ringlets; and only if she curled her fingers through it would the tendrils straighten enough for her to feel comfortable to leave the house. Her eyes were big and framed with thick lashes, half real, half fake, but still beautiful and lustrous. She was pretty because she had a delicate voice and little hands with prettily painted fingernails despite her new profession; and her scars, her runes, they were pretty, too, because they reminded him of how strong and capable she actually was. But it was also a constant slap in the face, because that capability meant he wasn’t needed anymore.

            Raphael was pretty in a way that Simon had never encountered before. Gone was the long red hair, the small hands, the fingernails. Now there was short, black hair, still soft but more rigid and defined. Straight, hard edges. Where Clary’s cheeks were soft and full, Raphael’s were sharply defined and naturally contoured. The heaviness of his eyes bore holes through Simons’ own, and had he still had his soul, there would be holes in that, too. Raphael was pretty because his lips were a pale pink, and when he concentrated on something hard enough, he’d bite his bottom one; and despite being undead, blood would rush the area anyway, and it would slightly well from the abuse.

            Simon wanted to be small and simple, but Raphael made that impossible. Simon couldn’t help himself – he would stare at the swollen lip and wonder what he could do to love someone as pretty as Raphael, what he could do to make Raphael realise he feels the way he does for the first time. For the first time, truly, the first time. The satisfaction he felt for Clary didn’t even compare to this, because Simon no longer felt satisfied, but rather just craved it. He didn’t know if Raphael could give it to him or not, or if it would remain and endless challenge.

            They would bicker back and forth like those old married couples on TV, on the mid-morning drama movies with low-budgets and no-name actors who should very much remain that way if they refuse to improve. He had dragged Raphael down on to the couch to join him on several occasions, only to feel his hatred stare on the side of his face every five minutes. Raphael could get up and leave, but something about what Simon did would always him stay till the very end. Simon wasn’t sure what it was he was doing, what captivated Raphael for a whole eighty minutes, but he was thankful for it, and wondered (just briefly) if maybe being big is better than being small.

            Raphael would argue, though. Had he known what Simon was thinking at all times, he would say that Simon wasn’t small, that he _was_ already big and loud and took up a lot of space. He had a cold exterior, and a Luke-warm interior. He would never tell Simon he took up too much space, but he’d ask him to take up less of his own space – Simon has his space, Raphael had his, and never should they bypass each other but instead remain parallel. But parallel meant they could see each other at all times, but could never do anything more. They could never touch, never hold each other, never take an unexpected turn.

            And Simon wanted _more._ He wanted so much more, but he realised that in order to explore the big world he wanted to shrink himself within, he’d have to grow, he’d have to act big enough for it. He would have to drown that last remaining desire for Clary, for the simple satisfaction he would be able to find there, no matter how unreciprocated it was. He’d have to dance the dance he couldn’t dance, and do it with Raphael, drag his out of his pockets, drop all his pennies and his worries and his expectations, and coax Raphael to take them in his own. He would have to stop being scared of what lies ahead, because that only makes things worse, makes shit that much harder.          

            And so, Simon tried. Years pass and he trains with Raphael and he trains alone, and trains his mind to keep up. He tried in every way he _could_. He gave Raphael space, but bothered him just enough to keep him interested; he called Clary every few days, and he’d help out the Shadowhunters wherever and whenever he could. After his last betrayal, an event that remains silent in the Hotel now, even after all these years, he refused to let anyone down again that thought anything of him. But trying and getting nothing back was exhausting, and hurt more than the sunlight did, more than Clary did.

            He was at his breaking point after knowing Raphael for seven years. There were new fledging’s; they came and went, some died and some disappeared. Simon stayed through all of that, at Raphael’s side. Their relationship changed. Raphael became less formal with him, more trusting, often asking him to stand by him in court or at clan meetings, even traveling internationally and attending balls as his plus one. Simon didn’t listen to the rumours, if he did, he’d get his hopes up, and the last time he did that, he was crushed beyond repair – he’s still recovering, he knows that, they all know that. Silence is Simon’s best friend sometimes, but Raphael knows how to break that sometimes into a strong, heavily-worded ‘Never’.

            Their relationship changed, and so did Simon’s mind. He still felt small, but he learnt that small isn’t a bad thing. The world is big, and he was small, and he just had to make that a good thing, a valuable thing. And he was valuable, even if he was never told he way. It was always shown to him; in the way Raphael would place a delicate hand on his waist to steer him, direct him, or introduce him to an important political figure; in the way Raphael would kiss his cheek each night, a courteous act that begun long ago, and Simon can’t sleep without it now; in the way Raphael is always with Simon, reaching out for Simon even if he isn’t there; in the way that Raphael always makes two blood cocktails instead of one.

            Simon realises, as Raphael kisses his cheek that night, bidding him goodnight, that the fluttering in his chest isn’t a ghost of his hear that used to beat there, but the butterflies that crawled up his throat. The butterflies that spring from the cocoons whenever he flushes or feels embarrassment, or is in the arms of the clan leader he has grown to adore so much. He loves those butterflies almost as much as he loves Raphael, and even though he knows Raphael loves him back, in a familial sense, he doesn’t think Raphael has butterflies in his throat.

            _But as Raphael kisses his cheek that night,_ Simon decides he wants this one last thing to change. He has changed his mind set and his body and his eating habits, but he hasn’t changed the way Raphael bids him goodnight. His cheeks are constantly abused by his lips but never his own lips. Simon wants change. Simon doesn’t want to be parallel lines anymore, he wants to morph and meet and become one. He wants to be a collection of lines, coming together; he wants to be a formidable structure, undefeatable and impenetrable by outside forces. He wants their love to expand and bloat and glide them through the big the world that he now lives forever in. So, he does, he changes it.   He shoves his hands into Raphael’s hair – still tough with hair gel, but nowhere near as much as he used years ago – and drags their lips together. They’re floating, he realises, in this dreamland, this dream like state that somehow exits in waking life. Raphael kisses him back, drags him back, closer to him, into him, into his soul.

            And so, every night ends this, starts this way, becomes this way whenever they meet. They kiss and they hold hands, and Simon learns to love being small, because the big is no longer terrifying to him. Raphael continues to train him, bring him is cocktail of blood, watches his dramas with him for eighty minutes, takes him to court and to balls as his plus one. Simon realises after twelve years, twelve years of being with Raphael, that he’s satisfied. Truly satisfied.

            Not the fake satisfaction he felt for Clary, or the satisfaction he substituted in place of Raphael’s unspoken affections. But real, to the bone, truthful satisfaction. And he craved it more and more, and he realised he had forever to relish in it.

Simon is small, and Raphael is big. But so is the world – so maybe they’re the same thing. Big and beautiful and full of wonder.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Wow. Hello again.
> 
> Its been a very, very long time since I've written any Saphael, or anything for the sh fandom for that matter. This just came to me, I wrote it all in one sitting, and I didn't actually proof read it or edit it in any way, so apologies for any mistakes.


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